Destruction of Evidence (5 page)

There was no plane, only lights burning somewhere ahead in a stinking smoke-filled gloom and a disgusting metallic taste in his mouth. Then he remembered. He’d come home… only no one had been in the house. He’d gone for a drink… met a mate… more mates… more drinks… a meal… gone into town… where was he?

It was so dark he couldn’t make out anything. And the place stank. Worse than the raw sewage that had spilled on to the beach when he’d been swimming in Spain.

His head hurt as if he’d been hit by a hammer. Had he? Had he been hammered? He had no memory of a fight. He cast his mind back before his last stay in prison and remembered… this was a hangover. He tried to sit up and realised he was lying in something soft. Soft and reeking. He made a supreme effort to get on his knees, fell back, crouched and gagged.

He retched so violently he lost control of his bladder and bowels. He failed to stop the spasms, even when there was nothing left inside to come up.

A torch shone down from ahead of and above the murk that enveloped him. A voice snapped.

‘Your name?’

He wanted to shout “Piss off” but between heaving and vomiting failed to get out a word.

The light drew closer. ‘Your name? What you doing here?’

He remained crouching only just managing to shake his head.

The light wavered. The man who’d spoken shouted, ‘Call a police officer, the Chief and get Tim Pryce. He knows everyone in town. If he’s local Tim will know him.’

Larry wanted to yell, “That’s right, call the bloody police. Larry Jones has had a few jars so lock him up again, why don’t you.” But he couldn’t stop his stomach from cramping to rid itself of beer that was no longer there.

Huw Thomas made an excuse. He needed to leave the ambulance because he could no longer face the anguish on Michael Pitcher’s face. Reggie went with him. They both started coughing when smoke hit their lungs. A fireman ran clumsily up the lane towards them, weighed down by full kit.

‘Sir, ma’am.’ He stood, fighting for breath in front of them. ‘An officer found a man in a building at the back of the Pitcher’s yard. We sent for Tim Pryce. He recognised him as Larry Jones. One of the Garth Estate Joneses. Tim threw him out of the Angel around midnight. He said Larry was so drunk then he couldn’t even stand. But he’s coming round now.’

‘Was this Larry Jones in the building in the yard when you arrived?’ Huw demanded.

‘No one noticed him, sir.’ The fireman admitted.

‘Are you telling me that none of you thought to check the buildings in the Pitcher’s yard before now?’ Huw demanded.

‘We were busy fighting the fire, sir.’

‘You trying to be funny, officer?’

‘No, sir.’ The young man was smoke and smut stained and, from the defeated look in his eyes, exhausted. Huw recognised him as a new recruit and dropped his hectoring tone.

‘Sergeant Howell?’ Reggie called.

Frank Howell left the officers who were manning the barricade at the bridge end of Main Street and ran to Reggie.

‘A Larry Jones has been found in an outbuilding at the back of the Pitcher house. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, Super. He’s a bad lot. Do you think…’

‘I don’t think, Sergeant,’ she cut in brusquely. ‘I work with facts, not thoughts. I want two officers in sterile clothes and a forensic team sent to the Pitcher yard A.S.A.P. And, I want everything done by the book. That means bagging this Larry Jones’s hands and feet and covering his clothes to prevent cross contamination before we move him out. After he’s been taken to the station I want every inch of the outbuilding examined and everything found there tagged and bagged. As soon as Larry Jones is in the station, I want his clothes removed and sent to the lab. And, I want a full body search conducted and filmed. By the book, Sergeant Howell,’ she reiterated. ‘I want no margin left for complaints or errors of judgement on this one. Nothing that can get a potential criminal case thrown out of court. Understood?’

‘Yes, Super.’

Reggie led the way down the lane that skirted the end of the terrace and cut behind the houses. As they approached the Pitcher yard, the smoke grew denser, making it difficult to see and breathe. Through the smoke Reggie made out the tall, thin figure of Tim Pryce, standing next to balding, stocky Dr Edwards. Half a dozen suited firemen and three uniformed constables were also in the yard.

One of the firemen was standing at the open entrance to a dilapidated stone building. When Reggie and Huw joined him he shone a torch inside on a man who was squatting on the dirt floor.

‘Don’t step any further,’ Reggie warned everyone. ‘I’ve sent for a forensic team.’ She looked down at the man. She could smell his lavatory stench from eight feet away. ‘Are you Larry Jones?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he cackled between heaving in great gulps of air.

‘That’s Superintendent Moore you’re talking to, Larry Jones. So mind your manners.’ Frank moved alongside the superintendent but was careful not to step past her. ‘Forensic team are on their way, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ She continued to study the man on the floor. ‘What do you know about this man, Sergeant Howell?’

‘He was sentenced to six years for aggravated burglary, rape and GBH last May. He was remanded in custody before his case came up, but I wasn’t expecting him to be out this soon.’

‘Anything before that?’

‘His record’s thicker than yellow pages.’

‘Check it thoroughly when you get back to the station.’ Reggie didn’t have to tell Frank for what. The torchlight illuminated smuts on Larry’s hands, face and clothes. His shoes were scorched. He stank of smoke. His appearance suggested that he’d been closer to the fire than he now was.

Frank looked at Larry. ‘On your feet, boy.’

‘You can’t bloody well tell me what to do. You…’

Knowing there was no way he could touch him before forensic arrived, Frank resorted to his most authoritative prison warder voice. ‘Get up you lazy sod. Now!’

The trick worked. Larry Jones scrambled to his feet.

Three white suited and capped officers carrying forensic kits approached. They pulled on overshoes before stepping into the building.

‘Bag his hands and feet. Once you’ve done that, remove the contents of his pockets,’ Regina ordered.

‘And watch where you’re treading, he stinks,’ Frank added superfluously.

Two officers moved gingerly forward and bagged Larry’s hands and feet in clear plastic before turning their attention to the contents of Larry’s pockets. They removed items one at a time with their gloved hands, sealing each in turn in a clear plastic bag before handing them to the third officer who stacked the bags in a plastic box.

Reggie addressed the officer who was stacking the bags. ‘Step back here and hand me a pair of gloves please.’

He moved, handed her a pair and she snapped them on.

‘Sergeant Howell, fetch a torch and shine it on this box for me, will you?’

Frank Howell did as she asked. She flicked through the bags, selected one and removed it from the box.

Huw peered at it.

‘What does it look like to you?’ Reggie asked.

Even the covering of plastic could not dim the glittering stones.

Huw recalled Michael’s description of the pieces his brother Lee had been working on. ‘Emerald and diamonds set in gold?’

Regina turned to Larry and held up the bag so the light of the torch shone on it. He began to shake.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I don’t know. I swear I’ve never seen it before…’

‘Itemise the rest of the contents of Mr Jones’s pockets,’ she ordered the officer holding the tray.

He flicked through the bags. ‘Matches, cigarettes, lighter, cash… a lot of cash. Notes folded in a gold clip…’

‘I loaned people money before I went inside. I got paid back today,’ Larry protested defensively.

‘In emeralds, gold and diamonds and well as cash?’ Regina suggested derisively.

‘I swear I don’t know nuffin…’

‘Save your breath, Mr Jones. Sergeant, you know what to do. I’ll see you back at the station.’

‘Congratulations, Reggie, you’ve got your man,’ Huw complimented her.

‘Have I, Huw?’

‘He’s a known thug with a record. He had the jewellery Michael Pitcher described in his possession. He had matches, a lighter, cash…’

‘Don’t you think it’s just a little too pat?’ she asked.

‘You think he was framed?’ Huw asked.

‘I don’t know, Huw. All I know are my limitations. If you’ll excuse me I have to return to the station, wake up some people and set a murder investigation in motion.’

Reggie sat in her office and looked across her desk at Inspector Carol March. ‘As soon as forensics has finished with him, I want you to conduct the interview.’

‘You’re the senior officer, ma’am.’

‘Whether you’re a natural or if it’s down to your degree in psychology, you’re the best interviewer we have. I’ve asked Sergeant Howell to set up the video camera. He’ll sit in with you. I don’t have to warn you…’

‘No threats, no pressure, nothing physical and by the book,’ Carol recited.

‘That’s why I want you to question Larry Jones and not one of the male officers.’

‘Thank you for your faith in me, ma’am.’

Reggie sat back in her chair and watched Carol leave the room. She knew the other officers at the station called Carol March “Snow Queen” after the cold, dispassionate icicle-firing character in the Hans Anderson story.

But this was one instance when emotion could hamper an investigation. Too many officers and people in the town had known and liked the Pitchers. And with one of the family dead, probably murdered and, three more missing in the fire, the last thing she, as a newly appointed Superintendent, could afford to do was attract media criticism of her handling of the case.

The only officer she trusted to operate by the book was Carol March. She crossed her fingers in the hope that her Inspector would live up to her nickname and fire her icicles in the direction to bring in a clean, swift result.

‘I can’t remember nuffin. And that’s the God’s honest truth. No matter what you do to me you can’t make me tell you things I don’t know. And I don’t know nuffin…’ Larry Jones was gabbling. His mud-brown eyes rounded in fear. Nervous, he bungled a theatrical sign of the cross.

‘I haven’t asked you a question yet, Larry.’ Carol took the vacant chair next to Frank’s and faced Larry and a fresh-faced boy she recognised as a trainee solicitor from the local practice. Judy Howell usually acted as duty solicitor but given the amount of wine she’d drunk at the “Women in Business” dinner Carol guessed she’d been happy to delegate the privilege to a younger colleague.

Carol March pressed the record button, recited the date, place and names of everyone present, gave Laurence Jones a formal caution notifying him of his rights, looked up at the clock and noted the time as 7.55 a.m.

‘Before you start, I can’t remember nuffin.’ Larry stuck his thumb in his mouth.

‘Does that mean you can’t remember anything about your life before you were found in the building at the back of the Pitchers’ house at four forty this morning, Mr Jones? Or you can’t remember anything about yesterday and the early hours of this morning?’ Carol remained impassive.

‘Can’t ’member yesterday,’ he mumbled.

‘Do you recall how you got that scratch on the side of your neck?’

‘No. Did you lot do it?’

‘Are you accusing an officer of injuring you?’

The solicitor whispered in Larry’s ear.

Larry mumbled. ‘No.’

‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’ Carol’s voice hardened as she clipped her words. ‘What is the first thing you remember doing yesterday morning?’

‘Waking up in my cell with Piggy…’

‘Piggy?’

‘Piggy and Bimmo Jones, my cellmates. The screws think it’s funny to shove all the Joneses together so when they call “Jones” everyone answers. So we give ourselves nicknames.’

‘Yours?’

‘Rambo.’

If Carol was sceptical, she hid it. ‘What did you do after you woke up?’

‘Had breakfast then they let me out of the lock-up.’

‘You mean prison?’

‘That’s what I said, lock-up, innit. I picked up a travel warrant and my personal effects from the screws in the office, walked to the bus stop and took the bus to Bridgend. I changed buses there and took one for here.’

‘So you, woke in prison?’

‘That’s what I said, innit.’

‘Which prison?’

‘Parc – not that it’s like a bloody Parc…’

‘You travelled here. What did you do when you arrived in the town?’

‘Went home, didn’t I?’ he snapped. ‘It’s where I told the screws I’d be. The address I had to give the bastards…’

‘Language,’ Carol reprimanded.

‘They knew I was coming. They should have been there, but they wasn’t.’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘Family,’ he mumbled.